


But You're Not Judy Garland

by yourfavoritetsundre



Category: Good Omens (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Afterlife, Angel Wings, Angst and Humor, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Family, Fix-It of Sorts, Found Family, Grief/Mourning, Heaven & Hell, Home, How Do I Tag, M/M, Multiverse, Therapy, heaven is rebranded, how many characters is too many?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-24 02:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30065181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourfavoritetsundre/pseuds/yourfavoritetsundre
Summary: “You, sir, are unhappy, or bored, maybe both.”“Psychology’s not your strong suit.”“Doesn’t take a psychologist to see you’re miserable, Dean. Everyone knows. What I know is that you feel guilty about it.”“Guilty?” Dean sputtered. “I don’t feel - ““You don’t think you belong here.”~*~A fix-it fic of angst, forgiveness, and remembering the point of life in the first place.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title Credit : "You're My Waterloo" by The Libertines
> 
> Tags include characters who will appear later. Will eventually cross over with Good Omens, maybe some others.

Dean Winchester has never been good at being happy. 

It’s strange. There’s no reason for it, because the simplest things have always brought him the most joy. Sharing a beer with his brother, an empty country road with the windows rolled down, a warm slice of pie. All attainable things he can fill his life with. He used to think he could remove the monsters from the equation, and fill the space with these things. If he could just get it all to stop, to make everything better and safe, he could finally rest. 

But the road ends, the plates and glasses empty. Each big bad gives way to a bigger bad, usually through some fault of his own or someone he knows. Dean collects more damage, and it gets harder to convince himself that some day, with the right circumstances, he can leave it all behind. 

He tries. God, does he try. But the truth is he doesn’t know what a proper home is supposed to look like. Not if it doesn’t have a panic room and warding under the wallpaper. He doesn’t know what a life is supposed to be like without a knife under his pillow and a crisis on the horizon. 

Maybe that’s why Heaven isn’t…he’s not even sure what’s wrong. And maybe that’s part of the problem. 

He should be resting. He’s earned it, damn it. He did everything he said he was going to do. The world was put in a good place, and everything was fine, and he didn’t have to worry about it anymore. 

But it’s not lost on him that his home here isn’t...it’s not his. A quiet place by a lake, that he had never seen in life, that held a collection of things that he remembers as being his once. Photographs of him and his loved ones, some he was pretty sure he had destroyed. There’s a garage that houses his car, and a short dock on the water where he sits and drinks his coffee in the morning. It’s quiet, and has a peacefulness he’s only known a few times. It’s a place from a half remembered conversation, something someone had tried to build to the letter when Dean wasn’t even sure if he had written the order. 

Time passes strangely here. Everything is eternal but the days do pass. Everyone smiles and finds joy. Dean wonders if he’s in the right place. 

“World’s not on your shoulders anymore, Dean.” Bobby would remind him. Repeatedly. “Stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.” 

Bobby’s house is near his own, and he spends most of his time there. Sam’s place is unfamiliar and Dean isn’t sure how he fits in there when he’s not a memory. Ellen and Jo have an exact replica of the Roadhouse, and the first time he walks in neither woman can decide whether to hug him or hit him. They decide on a mix of both. His parents live in his childhood home and argue but they don’t leave, and Dean wonders how this is better than life. 

“Gotta stop coming here so often,” Bobby grunts at him when he walks in. “John’s gonna throw a fit.” 

Dean shrugs and swings open the door of the fridge. The case of beer inside is always full. “Should’a been around more then.” 

“Dean.”

Dean twists the cap off his beer and takes a swig, unrepentant. He’s not sure how long it’s been since his death, but it’s enough that the days have blurred together. He’s had plenty of days where he’s more forgiving where John Winchester is concerned, and today just happens to not be one of them. He’s not sure if it’s life that made him angry, or death. 

“What?” he asks when Bobby continues to stare at him.

The old hunter sighs and shakes his head. “Nothin’. Come help me with this.” 

They head out back, where an old car is halfway to restoration. Dean sets his beer on the work table, which is just a sheet of plywood resting on some rusted out barrels, and sets his mind to the parts Bobby points to. When this project is finished, another will appear. 

They work in silence for a bit, but eventually Bobby wrestles out a question. 

“You alright, Dean?” 

Dean carefully finishes wiping his hands on a rag before he answers. “I’m fine.”

“I mean, are you happy?” 

He scoffs. “Don’t ruin our perfect afternoon with feelings, Bobby.” 

Bobby lets out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl. Dean picks up his beer and finishes it. 

“I’m fine, Bobby.” He reiterates. “Really. Don’t worry about me.” 

Bobby scowled and picked over the tools laid out on the table. Dean knows he doesn’t believe him, but that’s okay. As long as he doesn’t press the issue, which he won’t, Dean can believe it enough for the both of them. 

“Talk to Cas lately?” 

The name throws Dean off. Bobby’s the only one who ever says it. Everyone else talks around it, their eyes darting towards Dean as if he’s going to go off like a bomb. Sam said it once, and didn’t say it again. 

“No.” Dean looked towards the house. “You want another beer?” 

“Strange that he’s not around.” Bobby continued. “Couldn’t get rid of him, before.” 

“He’s probably busy.”

“Was never a problem before.” 

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be here.” Dean snapped. “Maybe now that everything isn’t ending he doesn’t have to be here.” 

Bobby stared at him. 

“I gotta go.” Dean turned around, chucking his empty at the recycle bin near the back door. He missed. “I’ll see ya later.” 

“Dean - “

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and stormed around the house, the roaring in his ears blocking out anything Bobby might call after him. 

When Cas left him, left him alone on Earth, Dean knew he’d never see him again. He just didn’t realize it would be the angel’s choice. 

Once in his house, his anger burns out and he’s left feeling drained. He stands in the hall and shrugs out of his jacket to hang it up next to his others. He notices, yet again, that there’s too many pegs. He doesn’t know why the house would be designed to hold more jackets than he has. He typically doesn’t have guests. 

He troops to the bedroom and sits on the end of the bed, dragging his hands through his hair. He’s supposed to have dinner with Sammy later, and he needs to pull his shit together before that. He’s not sure what’s wrong with him, why he’s always so tightly wound and about to snap. 

He’s supposed to be resting. He’s supposed to be happy and fine and content. Instead he’s always on edge, until he comes into this house. This problem that taunts him and he can’t even read the other half of the equation. 

Like this bedroom. There are two nightstands, which is normal for a bed. The right hand side, which Dean favors, holds a few nicknacks and two frames. His parents’ wedding photo, himself and Sam laughing and looking impossibly young. The other, the left hand side, holds just a lamp and one frame. His mother and Jack sitting at a picnic table, with himself and Sam leaning over their shoulders. Smiles all around, squinting in the sunlight. 

He tries to convince himself that whoever made this place put the photo there to balance the room out, but he knows it’s not his photo. He’s never had that photo. 

There’s other things that don’t make sense. The empty pegs by the door, mugs in the kitchen cabinet he’s never seen, sweaters neatly folded in the dresser when he can’t remember the last time he wore one. When he opens the fridge there are vegetables, something that definitely never happened in life. 

No one else has this problem. No one else has any surprises. Everyone else’s homes are collections of all their favorite things, items that were lost or broken returned to them. They only find new things when they want to - find books they’ve never read or records to enjoy when they go looking for them. Dean has The Divine Comedy in the original Italian, which he can’t read, neatly shelved next to the secondhand copies of The Lord of the Rings that his father threw away when he was thirteen. 

This house was built for him, but for someone else as well. If he thinks about who, he’ll either drown himself in the lake or set the building on fire. Maybe both, seeing as this is heaven and he’s not sure if either option will take. 

~*~

He cancels his plans with Sam and sleeps instead. The microclimate above his house moves from a brilliant sunny day to a gentle summer rain, and he decides it's best to stay in bed. He and Sammy have the rest of eternity to see each other, and maybe he’ll feel better in the morning. Sleep is everything it's supposed to be here, a hard reset button to move you into the next day. There’s no nightmares, either. 

He wakes early because someone is banging around in the kitchen. He feels between the mattress and the headboard for a knife, before he remembers there isn’t one. There isn’t a reason to have one. 

The house is cold - it’s always just a little too cold, no matter how much he moved the thermostat - so he pulls on a thick blue bathrobe and heads towards the kitchen, not bothering to be quiet. It’s probably his mother, using him as an excuse to get away from John for a bit. 

Instead, there’s a rail thin man wearing a mechanic’s shirt with the sleeves ripped off digging in his fridge. 

“Ash!” Dean barked. “I told you not to do this anymore.” 

Ash poked his ratty mullet up above the fridge door. “Morning, Dean.” 

“Out.” 

“Come on, man, I just wanted some breakfast, and Ellen and Jo are fighting again.” Ash whined. “I made coffee already and everything.” 

There is, of course, a pot of coffee already made and a bottle of whiskey open next to it. Ash usually lived at the Roadhouse, because it was even more his home than it was Ellen or Jo’s. But he sometimes broke into old friend’s places and crashed out for the night, mostly because he could. He seemed to have some rotation that no one could figure out the order of. 

“I’ll make you an omelette.” Ash promised. 

Dean knew he couldn’t get rid of him, and resigned himself to the company. He pulled a mug from his cabinet and poured himself coffee, ignoring the whiskey, then sat at the small table pushed up next to the window. He had a clear view of the adirondack chair on the short pier. 

Ash clattered around by the stove, and Dean sipped his coffee and stared out the window. Another perfect, empty day. 

Ash dropped a plate of scrambled eggs dotted with fried cheese infront of him. Dean pulled a face. “What happened to my omelette?” 

“Hey, omelettes are hard, man.” Ash sipped his fragrant coffee. “You can’t flip them too early, and I am not a patient man. You sure you don’t want any flavor in your coffee?” 

“Can I get some toast?”

“You’re out of bread.” 

He wasn’t, but he scarfed down the eggs without it anyway. 

“You alright Dean? You seem jumpy.” 

Dean washed down the last of his breakfast with a sip of coffee. “Well, some crazy bastard broke into my house to make eggs and irish coffee, so…”

Ash pointed his fork and spoke with his mouth full, “Crazy smart bastard, which is why I know what no one else knows.” 

“And what’s that?” 

“You, sir, are unhappy, or bored, maybe both.”

“Psychology’s not your strong suit.”

“Doesn’t take a psychologist to see you’re miserable, Dean. Everyone knows. What I know is that you feel guilty about it.” 

“Guilty?” Dean sputtered. “I don’t feel - “

“You don’t think you belong here.” Ash stood and headed for the coffee maker, but skipped the coffee and filled his mug with whiskey. “And you’re unhappy with how things turned out. But you can’t tell anyone that, because then they’ll worry about you.” 

Dean scowled out the window. Why did he have two chairs on the pier? Egg thieves aside, he never had guests. The house was tiny, and he preferred to take the drive. 

“Come on, who am I gonna tell?”

Dean rubbed his eyes. “I’m not miserable.” 

Ash shook his head. 

“We’re in Heaven. I don’t think it’s allowed to be anything but perfect.” 

“This is the Afterlife, Dean, not Heaven. They rebranded.” 

Dean shook his head, not entirely sure what he just heard. “What?” 

“Everyone knows this, Dean. It’s not just perfect days and memories for the rest of eternity. No more good place. Just life after life. It was in the welcome packet.” 

“I didn’t read the welcome packet.”

“Well then you can’t be upset that you didn’t know, can you? Most of being smart is just paying attention and reading the pamphlets they give you.” Ash took a sip of whiskey. “It was all part of the new policy about choices and freedom.” 

Well that did explain some things. Bobby had said that everything had been redesigned, but he didn’t know that they had changed the PR as well. But it did make sense - new god, new priorities. 

“What about Hell?” Dean asked. “If it’s not about good and evil - “

“They renegotiated the contract.” 

“Jack renegotiated. With Hell.” 

“Yeah, it was a whole thing, man.” He scratched the back of his head. “See, they called in all the titled positions. King of Hell, Death, few of the pagan afterlifes that are still going, and changed up the whole system. Afterlife is all connected now, different domains working together instead of against each other, and takes everyone. Hell is restricted to people who sell their souls in a deal, and people who need to be there. Everything as it should be.” 

“Like murderers and pedophiles.” 

“And the ones who need to be there.” Ash repeated. “But no more innocents. No more grabbing souls just because.” 

“And Rowena was okay with that?” 

“She put up a fight, but it was just a big show. Hell’s been through a lot of changes over the last fifteen years. They need stability, and their king will deliver.” He raised his mug to Rowena. “Y’ask me, she was scared. They all were.” 

“Scared of what?” 

Ash drained his mug. “Dunno. Somethin’s all screwy and the Kid’s got all the angels working on something.” 

“And you got all of this from a welcome packet?” 

“No, I went to the Garden, man. Asked some questions, didn’t get a lot of answers but I put it together.”

“You just went there?”

“Open door policy.”

Dean considered his coffee. Even if he didn’t get answers, it might be worth going. He could check in on Jack, make sure he knew what he was doing. Sure, he probably had plenty of guidance, but it might be nice to just see him. 

He tried to tell himself he was doing this for Jack. 

“How do I get there?” he asked. 


	2. Chapter 2

Ash tried to talk Dean into bringing him along, but he flat out refused. He didn’t want company on this one. And the directions were fairly simple - drive straight, and you’ll get there. All roads lead to the Garden, even the ones coming out of Hell. 

“Don’t forget your wallet.” Ash advised. “They’ll want your ID.” 

“Aren’t angels supposed to see your soul?” he asked. 

“Hey, man, I don’t make the rules here.” 

Dean grabbed his wallet. 

Last time he was here, Ash had given him a shortcut that dropped him right inside. Now he was parking outside what looked like a museum, an enormous structure of glass and slate attached to a massive greenhouse. The lot was mostly deserted and a man in a grey suit smoked a cigarette near an ashray. He watched Dean impassively as he passed through the automatic doors. 

The lobby was huge and empty, with a single guardian sitting behind a security desk. The sound of a keyboard reverberated through the space. A row of turnstiles with badge readers barred entrance to the Garden beyond, and on upper levels office workers hurried from across glass catwalks, none making a sound other than the occasional rustle or murmured word. 

Dean approached the desk. “Excuse me, I - “

“ID?” 

The guardian didn’t even look at him, just kept typing away with a slow and methodical precision. Dean pulled a driver’s license out of his wallet and put it on the desk. It was shoved through a card reader like it had done something terrible. 

_ Click. Click. Click. _

“Dean Winchester.” The guardian looked up at him now, then grunted. “Shorter than I thought you’d be.” 

“I - what?”

“Here for your counseling session?” 

“Counseling?” Dean repeated. 

“Apparently not as smart as they said either.” The guardian appraised him. “You’ve missed your initial session. It was in your welcome packet. You’ll have to apply for a new time.” 

“I’m not here for counseling.” Dean snatched back his ID. “I’m here to see Jack.” 

“No access to the Garden without completion of counseling.” 

“I don’t need counseling.” 

“Those are the rules. Take it up with the guys in charge.” 

“I will, I just need to get into the Garden to do that.” 

“No access to the Garden without completion of counseling.” 

This had to be some kind of joke. Or maybe punishment. Maybe in some central security room a bunch of angels were gathered around to watch Dean Winchester lose his shit. 

“Well, can I speak to Castiel then?” Dean gritted out. 

The guardian’s lip curled. “Just because you have friends in high places, buddy - “

Dean let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. 

“I can take this, Hermiel.” 

Dean turned to see his savior, a petite redhead with turquoise cateye glasses. Unlike her brethren on the glass citadel above them, she wore a long blue skirt and a soft cream cardigan, giving her the kind appearance of a preschool teacher. 

“Dean Winchester? I’m the angel Clairiel. It’s such a pleasure to meet you.” 

Dean numbly shook her hand. 

“Why don’t we head to my office? I have time now for a quick session.” 

Her smile was kind, and seemed to be genuine. But she was still a part of this bureaucratic nightmare he seemed to be in. 

“I don’t need a session.” he repeated. “I just need to talk to Jack.”

Her smile faltered. “Yes, but you never had your initial grief counseling session. Death can be hard to come to terms with, and we can’t allow Garden Access until you’ve completed at least one session. We don’t want souls trying to return to Earth. You understand.”

Dean didn’t understand. 

“Which death are we talking about?” he asked. “Who died?” 

The angel looked sad for a moment. “You did, Dean.” 

Oh. He hadn’t thought about that. He knew he was dead, but it never occurred to him to grieve for himself. 

“It will just take a moment.” she promised, gently taking his arm and steering him towards the turnstiles. “When we’re done, I’ll take you to Jack personally. How does that sound?” 

Clairiel had him scan his ID to get through the turnstile, and swiped a laminated badge before guiding him to a series of elevators. They were deposited on one of the glass catwalks overlooking the lobby, but she took him down a corporate hallway with blank grey walls away from the front of the building. Her skirt flowed and flirted with her heels as she walked. 

“I’m sorry about Hermiel,” she said, making Dean look up. “You probably didn’t expect to deal with that. He usually doesn’t work the desk, but security has been understaffed. More than usual.”

“None of this is what I expected.” he admitted. “It’s very...corporate.” 

She shrugged helplessly. “Castiel encouraged us to rebuild it in a way that worked for all of us, but many have become a little stuck in their ways.” 

Dean’s throat burned. 

Clairiel’s office was a little homier than the hallways, but lacked the personality of her outfit. Two minimalistic chairs faced a microfiber couch over a low table, their backs to a large desk with a computer and a newtonian cradle. A few filing cabinets were pushed up against the wall. A Monet reproduction hangs opposite a window. 

“Have a seat, Dean. I’m just going to find your file.” 

“On the crying couch?” he guessed. 

“Only if you want to.”

The chairs didn’t look very comfortable. He sat on the couch. 

Clairiel took his file out of one of the cabinets and perched on the edge of an armchair. She flipped through a few pages. 

“So, Dean.” The kind smile was back. “A hunting accident, it seems.” 

He shrugged. 

“Must have been a shock.” she said gently. “You’ve survived so much.” 

“Died a lot too.” 

“Yes, well, I’m not sure if we’ll have time for  _ that _ today.” She gently closed the file. “How would you have wanted to die?” 

“Does it matter?” he asked wearily. 

“Well, it should matter to you.”

Dean stared at his hands. 

“There’s nothing you would have wanted to do?” she prodded. “Start a family? Maybe a business?” 

“I didn’t have much going for me.” 

“There must be something you regret.” 

Under the veneer of the kind councilor, Clairiel was still an angel, still looking directly into his soul. Dean didn’t know why she even bothered with the file act. It was probably all laid right out for her to see. 

“Nope.” he lied. 

“You went through a lot because of Chuck. You don’t think it’s unfair that you never got to enjoy a normal life experience because of him?” 

Dean felt his anger surge. “Of course I do. That’s why we stopped him.”

“And then you died soon after.” 

“Like I said, I didn’t have much going for me.” 

“And that doesn’t upset you?”

_ Yes. _

“No.” he said firmly. 

Clairiel’s mouth twisted. She opened the file again. “Let’s talk about Castiel.”

“Let’s not.”

“Were you still grieving for him when you died?” 

“I don’t think that’s important.” 

“I think it’s very important.” 

“Look lady, it had nothing to do with him.” Dean snapped. “I died because I wasn’t careful enough, and maybe I just got too old and too slow. Maybe Chuck went and changed my story for one last laugh before the Kid took over. It had nothing to do with Cas.” 

“You think Chuck had something to do with your death?” 

“No. Maybe. I don’t know, okay? Aren’t you supposed to help me figure it out?” 

“I’m here to help you come to terms with it, if you’ll let me.” Clairiel closed the file again. “I can tell you that Chuck had nothing to do with your death.” 

“You can’t know that.” 

“It was always going to end this way, Dean. It was in your book. Chuck could change the story, make it longer, but the fates decide the end. But it’s not about the end. It’s about what you did with the story, and what you took away from it.”

Dean let that weight settle on him. He wished he could feel relief. 

“And now, you have a chance in your afterlife to find happiness.” Clairiel smiled brightly. “To settle some of those regrets.” 

“I don’t have any regrets.” 

She did Dean the favor of ignoring him. He mostly said it for his own benefit anyway. She took a form on carbon paper out of the file and a pen appeared in her hand. 

“I’m going to go ahead and clear you.” Clairiel’s hand moved across the page. “You don’t seem like a flight risk, and given your...familiarity with the subject, you don’t seem to have a hard time coping with the event of your death.”

“Great.” 

“However, you should feel free to come back anytime. My door is always open.” She blinked at him through her cateye glasses. “I think you could benefit from talking to someone...removed from your situation.” 

“Great.” Dean grumbled. “How much do you charge per session?” 

“This is the Afterlife, Dean. Healthcare is free.” She smiled and stood. “Come on, I can take you to the Garden before I file this.” 

~*~

Clairiel saw him to the Garden entrance, and gave him yet another kind smile as she held the glass door for him. She seemed to have an endless supply of them. 

“Think about what I said, Dean.” she told him. “And let me know if you’d like to talk.” 

Dean would be more than happy to never talk to the strange angel with her flowing hippie skirt again, but he generally felt that way about angels. There were a few notable exceptions, and Clairiel wasn’t one of them. 

The air inside was humid, and sat heavy in his lungs. He could smell moist dirt, greenery, and a heavy floral musk. A pair of angels came down along a path, heads bowed together as they discussed something. The one on the right saw Dean and elbowed his companion, and they both stopped and simply stared. 

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and walked past, keeping his eyes straight ahead. 

Their conversation picked back up with a hum as soon as Dean turned the corner. He walked on, trying not to think about the whispered name that followed him along the path. 

The path curled around trees and through beds of flowers, the red stone under his feet slick from misters in the ground. He came around a display of succulents in a dry patch, and suddenly was in the center. A wide circle of green grass, with a few figures gathered around a park bench and a thin young man. 

Dean took a step onto the grass, and one of the men straightened up. He seemed to be making reassurances. Dean could hear the low rumble of his voice, but couldn’t catch any of the words, and he forced himself to take a few more deliberate steps towards him. To not run forward, or away. 

Castiel looked up, and when their eyes met Dean froze. His heart thudded painfully in his ears, and something in the angel’s mouth tightened in an almost unpleasant way. 

There was a rush of wings, and he was gone. 

Dean kept walking, and as he reached the bench the rest of the angels left on some unspoken cue. The one who remained smiled placidly up at him, plastic sunglasses at once retaining mystery and adding a sort of innocent ridiculousness to it all. 

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Jack.” 

“Have a seat. You seem tired.” 

Dean sank onto the bench. Tired didn’t even begin to cover it. 

Jack tipped his face up to the sun, filtered through the glass panels overhead. “I’ve been waiting to see you.” 

“Yeah.” Dean sighed. “Yeah, sorry, kid. I’ve been...I don’t know.”

_ Lost. Uncertain. Angry. Scared.  _

_ Heartbroken.  _

“You’re here now.” Jack reassured. “You always find your way, Dean. It’s what makes you good.” 

Dean looked around. “Quite the place you’ve got here.” 

“It is beautiful, isn’t it? This is the place where everything connects. All the afterlifes, and the mortal plane. I like to come here to think.” 

“I can see why.” Dean hesitated. “Cas come here with you often?”

Jack frowned slightly. “Castiel has been busy. There’s much work to be done, things I can’t oversee directly. We’ve been rebuilding.” 

“I noticed. It, uh...it’s great, kid. Everything is really nice.” 

“You don’t seem to enjoy your house much.”

“It’s fine. It’s perfect.” Dean briefly wondered if he could get kicked out for lying to God, even if they’re on first name basis. “Just...adjusting, I guess.” 

Jack’s mouth worried at something, but he didn’t say what. 

“Tell me what you’ve been up to.” 

“There’s much work to be done.” Jack’s frown deepened. “It’s a lot of responsibility. Many things which should be automatic are broken. Doors that needed to be locked again. Worlds to rebuild. But I’ve had help.” 

“Angels back on your side?” 

“Yes. And the Lady.” 

“Who?”

“It’s hard to explain.” Jack considered for a moment. “She’s a...deity. A creator. Like Chuck and Amara, or the Empty.”

“The Empty is a creator?”

“In a sense. The same way I am. The Lady says everyone has a little bit of creator in them, and it’s only the scale that’s different. She’s helped me to understand how this,” he gestured with his hands, and a patch of dandelions blossomed around Dean’s feet, “works.” 

“Where did she come from?”

“She has her own worlds, not unlike yours, that she takes care of. Chuck couldn’t touch the Empty, because it wasn’t his domain, and he couldn’t touch hers, either. There are many creators, Dean, but generally they don’t overlap.”

“But she’s here?”

“Just to help out.” Jack nodded. “Then she’ll leave. An unstable multi-verse is catastrophic for others.” 

Every single word of this conversation was making Dean’s head hurt. So he said, “Well I’m glad you have help,” and hoped it would be the end of it. 

Jack smiled again, perhaps knowing what Dean was thinking. 

“Actually, there’s something you can help me with, Dean.” Jack said, straightening up. “Only if you want to.” 

~*~

Dean leaned against the kitchen counter in his brother’s house, and turned over the offer Jack had made him earlier. He was having a hard time feeling one way or another about it. 

Sam and Eileen have a house that’s filled with light and well-loved furniture. They’re both a little older than Dean last saw them in life, probably the age they were as newlyweds. There’s plenty of room for parties, and Miracle is running around underfoot looking for dropped food. Dean finds it massively unfair that Sam got the dog in death as well as life, but there’s not a lot he can do about it. 

In the living room, Charlie dances with Jo while Eileen shuffles plates on the coffee table to make room. Jody Mills laughs at a story Garth is telling her and Kevin Tran, and the front door hangs open so Dean can hear Bobby talking to his parents. So many people he loves in one place. 

He still feels numb. 

Sam leans against the counter next to him and sips his beer. “I heard you went to the Garden today.” 

“Yep.” Dean picked at the label on his bottle. “Apparently I was overdue for grief counseling. You have to do that? Sit there and have an angel tell you to deal with your regrets?” 

Sam shrugs. “I was exempt.” 

“What? Why?”

“I had a long, full life.” 

“Huh.” 

They drank in silence for a moment. 

“So. You do anything else?” 

“Saw Jack.” Dean rubbed his forehead. “I think he offered me a job.”

“A job?” Sam repeated. 

“Yeah. I guess. Not sure what else to call it.” 

“Dean.” Sam groaned. “You’re supposed to be resting.” 

Dean shrugged. “I didn’t say I’d take it.”

“But you’re thinking about it. What happened to retirement? This is practically the ultimate retirement and, what, you want to go back to work?” 

“Maybe I’m not ready for retirement.” Dean griped. “Maybe this is one of my regrets.” 

Sam shook his head. “Whatever, man. What’s the job?” 

“The last time he got - “ Dean’s throat dried up, and he tried again. “The last time Jack opened the Empty, a whole bunch of angels and demons got out. Something about one too many times. Some of the angels have been tasked with retrieving them and bringing them home.” 

“And he wants you to do that?” 

“He wants me to be a bodyguard.” He rubbed his eyes. “I guess not all of the angels are good in a fight.” 

“Huh.” Sam sipped his beer. “Well, you’d be the right person to ask. You gonna do it?” 

Dean shrugged. “Haven’t decided.” 

“Who’s the angel that needs protecting? Have you met them?” 

“Clairiel. She was my grief counselor.” 

Sam choked on a short laugh.

“What?” 

“Nothing, man. It’s just...you have such Mom-energy.” 

Dean’s jaw dropped. “I do  _ not _ .”

“Yeah, you do. You’ve always had this weird tribe of kids following you around.”

“Like who?” 

“Jo. Charlie. Kevin.” 

“You’re just listing people in this room. 

“All of Jody’s girls, but mostly Claire. Not to mention me, and Jack.” Sam grinned. “And now Jack’s giving you Clairiel. I’ve met her. She’s going to fit right in.” 

Dean groaned. 

“It’s not a bad thing. It just means you care. Cas always admired you for it.” 

Something in Dean’s chest froze, sending a sharp pain shooting through him. 

“You see him? In the Garden?” 

“No.” Dean said quickly. 

Sam rose an eyebrow, and went into the fridge for new beers. Dean tried to breathe again, figuring he was safe. He took the new bottle with a word of thanks. 

“What happened that day, Dean?” Sam asked. 

Dean looked away. “I told you. He saved me. The end.” 

“No.” Sam shook his head. “Something else happened. Cas died for us before, and you didn’t act like this.” 

“Like this? I’m the picture of health, Sammy, aside from being dead.” 

Sam didn’t appreciate the joke. “Look, I know you two always had a...a thing, and he wouldn’t have sacrificed himself if he didn’t think it was worth it.” 

“I’m not talking about this.” 

“Dean, come on.” 

Dean forced himself to walk away, his vision blurring as he headed for the door. He barely heard the music and his friends laughter over the roar in his ears, the ache in his throat and the anger that threatened to overflow and ruin everything he was. The cool night air hit him and the dark figures gathered around a bonfire in the yard turned towards him. 

“Dean - “ Sam tried, his voice gentle, and he hated it. 

“No!” Dean snapped, turning and batting the comforting hand away. “There was another way, Sam! There’s always another way! He didn’t have to- to -” 

“Boys?” John called uncertainly.

“To what, Dean?” Sam asked.

_ To leave me. To say that and leave me. To say it, and not give it a chance. To take all the options away, to make it all so damn pointless.  _

Sam wrapped his arms around him, squeezing tighter when Dean tried to fight him off until he finally submitted. Dean choked in a breath against his shoulder, refusing to let the tears fall. Sam was mumbling some mantra of comfort he couldn’t hear, and their family was watching.

Dean gave one more shove, finally forcing Sam off. Then he walked back up the drive to his house as fast as he could. 

No one came after him. 

~*~

An hour later, Dean is halfway into a bottle of whiskey and still suffocating on anger and grief. He never wanted this. If he was going to suffer like this then he might as well have lived. His time here, in the Afterlife, was supposed to be healing but there’s no recovery from something like this. There’s only remembering. 

It didn’t happen in an instant. It wasn’t a flash of inspiration, or a moment of clarity. It certainly didn’t happen at first sight. 

It was gradual. A rising tide, pushing forward inch by inch. Lapping at where he stood in the sand, reaching before pulling back. Then one day, he realized the water was up to his shoulders, and he was about to drown. He found he didn’t mind much, and voluntarily submerged. 

There had never been anyone who...protected him. Not really. He had people who helped him, and people who took care of him. But very few who willingly moved in the bullet’s path. And even fewer who could level with him, who fought back when he was being an ass. 

But he wasn’t flawless. He made mistakes, had his own shortcomings. He had his own path with wrong turns and an absolute conviction they were the right ones. It just made him more real, which in a world of nightmares and demons Dean desperately needed. Someone who was just as failable as he was. 

He remembered when he realized it. Sitting alone in a dark bar, Sam was off somewhere blowing off steam with a girl. She had a friend, who was pretty, and he had gently turned her down. It was after...some terrible thing had happened, he couldn’t remember which, and he was feeling melancholy. He wanted company, someone he could talk to if he felt like it, who understood his world. 

He wanted Cas. 

He tried to lock that back up and took down a glass of whiskey to ignore the bite. Make it Future Dean’s problem. Sorry, man. It worked with everything else in his life, and it should have worked with this. Aside from Castiel being his best friend and that being complicated in the best of circumstances, he was an angel. An immortal being made up of light and will. He probably wasn’t...capable. Certainly not with Dean. 

It doesn’t occur to him until the next morning, through a pounding headache and dry mouth, that while he’s found himself attracted to other men before this would be the first one who was a real person. He took an aspirin, drank some water, and shoved that into the box as well. 

But once it started, it didn’t stop. The problem with making it Future Dean’s problem was that with each minute he got closer to being that person. He missed the angel constantly. Found himself wondering what he was up to, what he would say when he returned. It was miserable. And then when Cas did show up, Dean was constantly on edge. He lost his temper, said all the wrong things. Tried to fuck just about anyone who was the exact opposite of the angel. 

Trying to convince himself and everyone that it was normal, that he was fine, that it was just business as usual. Maybe it worked, because no one else seemed to notice anything. No one said a goddamn word. Not even Sammy. It was just normal, walls of steel Dean Winchester, complete asshole to anyone who got within spitting distance of the barbed wire. 

Deep down, Dean knew it was just self-sabotage. Because maybe if he could make Castiel hate him and abandon him then the rest of it would just disappear. 

But Cas didn’t. He got mad, might leave, but he always came back. The tide was coming in faster and Dean was getting swept away. He could go willing, he could go kicking and screaming, but it was a fight he was losing badly. 

He tried to focus on what he could control. Tried to figure out how he ended up being in...being like this towards his best friend. He finally sucked up his pride and looked for help on the internet. He tried to have composed conversations with Charlie without giving anything away. Part of him thinks he’s too old to be questioning, and doesn’t understand these kids who “just know”. Then he comes across the phrase “internalized homophobia”, googles it, and a few things start to click into place. 

Best he can figure out, not that he’s going to be telling anyone this anytime soon, is he’s bisexual, and his experience is normal, and it’s not unusual to only figure it out in his thirties. Given the nature of his childhood, the strained relationship with his father, and the general lack of chances to explore this at a younger age, it’s not unexpected that any time he had thought a man was attractive he did his best to smother that. 

This is the first time he’s given any significant time to introspection, and Past Dean would be horrified by all of this. Instead, he manages to stay rational with the hopes that if he can at least figure out what’s going on, he can solve it. You never know what flavor of monster you’re dealing with until you do the leg work, he rationalizes. And the fact that he’s going through all of this over Castiel, well, that can go in the box too. Sorry, Future Dean. Something to deal with when his life is a little more stable. 

Something he reads catches his eye, and it strikes him as the best explanation for why Cas, specifically. “I like the wine, not the label”, an article quotes. And that sure as hell makes sense. Cas is nothing like anyone he’s ever been attracted to, not on the surface. 

But he’s brave, and loyal, and kind. And maybe he can be awkward, and doesn’t always understand, but he learns. He remembers, and he tries to do better. And so maybe he’s exactly like every other person Dean thought, at one point or another, he could allow himself to love. 

He’s officially in over his head, drowning with no hope for salvation. No one to pull him out. Cas is always around and Dean finds it easier every day. He can be his friend, his brother in arms. He can focus on whatever crisis is bringing them together, or taking them apart. He can put aside his physical needs, at least until he’s alone. 

Just because he can, doesn’t mean it’s not painful. It goes on for years. The tide never goes back out, and no one pulls him aboard a lifeboat. He sinks, blind in the dark. He convinces himself it’s any number of things that make him feel like this. He pushes himself, Cas, their relationship to the limit, because there has to be a breaking point. There has to be a day where Castiel walks away and stays gone. 

It comes. And when Dean realized the angel had been there drowning next to him the whole time, he also realized that the tide had already remade the entire shore and he’d never be able to climb back out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear with me. The more I work on this story the more complicated it gets. Hopefully it turns out ok.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean blacks out. When he wakes up, he’s ass-naked on his bed with a bottle of whiskey digging into his hip. If only this was the first time something like this had happened. Then it might be a novelty, something he can find humorous later in the day. Instead he just feels empty, and a little pathetic. 

He drags himself to the bathroom and sits in the tub with the shower running over him. He wishes he could just be happy. At least the hot water never runs out, and hangovers aren’t a thing. 

When he gets to a point where wallowing in the shower is sounding ridiculous even to him, he turns off the water and steps into his robe. He cleans up the bedroom, tossing the sheets and blankets into the washer as one load, and finally stumbles into the kitchen to make coffee. 

His father is sitting at his kitchen table. God, he hates having guests. 

“What’re you doing here?” Dean grunted at him. 

“Just wanted to check in.” John sipped his coffee and looked him over. “Haven’t talked in a while.” 

Dean stomps over to the coffee maker and bangs open the mug cabinet. There’s one printed with a gas station logo, and he resists the urge to smash it. 

“Your mother’s worried.” John tried. “We all are. After last night.” 

Dean poured his coffee. John Winchester had never been able to make a good pot of coffee in life, and it seems that death hadn’t solved it. He wondered if he should just dump the pot and start over. 

“Sam said it had to do with your friend. The angel.”

“Dad.” Dean squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m not doing this.” 

“Dean - “

“No. I’m too fucking old for this.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Just...get out of my house. I’m not having this conversation.” 

The chair scraped as John stood. “I wish…” He stopped and sighed. “I wish you knew how sorry I am.” 

Dean waited until he heard the door open and close before taking a deep breath, and dumping the coffee. He put on a fresh pot, and stared at the crossword on the counter. He used to throw them out, but every morning a new one always appeared. Sometimes he’d fill in the answers he knew, but usually they sat unanswered. 

When the coffee was ready, he took it outside. 

He thought he had forgiven his father. To some extent, he had. But being back together with him had made it clear that they still had some things to work through. Right now, it’s too close to other things that he’s angry about, and maybe he just likes adding fuel to the fire. Anger is familiar, it’s almost safe. As long as he’s angry, he doesn’t have to think. 

The dock is peaceful, and Dean lets the Adirondack chair cradle his body while he sips from his mug. He never would have chosen these chairs. It never would have occurred to him that this lake could be more than scenery. 

This is a place of rest. And he’s not ready for it. 

He barely drank his coffee before he’s getting up again, and heading back into the house. He’s going back to work, before anyone else can show up on his doorstep to stop him. 

~*~

Clairiel is waiting for him in the lobby. He had thrown a prayer her way before leaving the house, wanting to talk to someone who didn’t know his tells before he showed up. There was no answer, and he drove alone. 

“Dean,” she smiled. “I’m glad you came.” 

“Couldn’t give me a ride?” he grumbled. 

“Paperwork” She seemed apologetic. “Are you taking the job?” 

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

She seemed delighted, and held out a plastic badge with his face and name on it. “This is going to do wonders for you.” 

He just sighed and took the badge. “Come on. Let’s go see the big man.” 

They went through the barriers, and Clairiel grabbed his arm to stop him from entering the Garden. “He’s waiting for you downstairs. I think this will be wonderful for your mental health, Dean. I really think you’ll be able to work through some things.” 

“Huh.” 

In the elevator, Clairiel presses a button labeled L1.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why are you doing this?”

Clairiel looked sad for a moment. “I’d like to bring my brothers and sisters home.”

“Jack seems to think it’s dangerous.”

“Earth is always dangerous. I was there for a few years, you know. When we all fell. That was when I learned how to be a grief counselor.” 

“Huh.” 

“Most of us survived on Earth just by being more powerful than the average human. I was never a fighter. We can’t all be Garrison Commanders.” 

Dean scowled at her. 

“Thank you for agreeing to do this,” she said quietly as the doors opened. They started down a long, bright hallway. “Jack wouldn’t let me go without protection, and everyone’s busy with the more volatile angels. We’re a lot like humans, you know. Sometimes we just want someone to talk to.” 

“I don’t know how much help I’ll be.” Dean muttered. “I lost plenty of fights against angels.” 

“I’m told you have good instincts.” She stopped at a metal door. “Jack can help with the rest. See you on the other side.” 

The room inside is plain and white. A void where creation hadn’t quite touched. There’s no indication where the walls end and the floor and ceiling begin, and Dean suffers from vertigo for a moment. 

Jack grabs his shoulders, holding him upright and keeping him grounded. “Dean.” 

“Hey, kid.” Dean closed his eyes, then blinked them open. “I think I’ll take the job.” 

“I knew you would.”

It takes another moment for Dean to truly regain his footing, and once he’s stable Jack is taking him over to the other figure in the room. 

“This is the Lady. I told you about her. She’s been helping. This is Dean, my dad.” 

The woman turned and smiled. She had a beautiful, kind face. Something that you would pray to. Her eyes glinted with a motherly knowledge. But he couldn’t describe her hair color, or eyes or skin. He just knew she was there, and she could help. Maybe that was all he needed from her. 

“Hello, Dean. I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“Hey.” Dean greeted, falling short in terms of greeting eternal beings. 

She beckoned him forward. “Come see.” 

Dean shuffled forward, realizing the Lady was standing on the edge of a pool. Or maybe the pool only just appeared. A shimmering liquid, like starlight made solid. 

“Pure creation energy.” The Lady knelt and cupped her hands, pulling stars from the primordial mess. “Everything that ever was contains at least a tiny spark. Every atom of oxygen, every bird and flower.” She stretched it between her hands, then shook out a white lab coat. “Creators, like myself and now Jack, can use it directly.”

“It looks like angel grace,” Dean blurted. 

She smiled and swung the coat over her shoulders. “It can be.” 

“It’s potential, Dean.” Jack explained. “It can be anything we want it to be.” 

“Why are you showing me this?” 

Jack took his own handful of stars. “We can’t send you down to Earth like this.”

Dean nodded. “I need a body.” 

“A body is  _ easy _ , Dean.” Jack rolled his eyes. “We need to protect your soul.”

“From what?” 

“Degradation.” 

“After you die, Dean,” The Lady said in a patient voice, “your soul becomes unstable. That’s why ghosts, the ones who stay on Earth, get angry and act out. Dying takes away some of the stability.”

“I’ve died before. Always came back alright.” 

“Magic can fix it, even if it’s usually temporary. What Jack and I had in mind was something a little...stronger.” She smiled. “We’re going to give you wings, Dean Winchester.” 

Dean took a moment to scrape his jaw off the floor. “You’re going to make me an angel?” 

“Not exactly. We’re going to reinforce your soul, add to what already is there. You’ll have some angelic ability, but you’ll still be...human. Mostly.” 

“You won’t be as strong as the archangels, or a seraphim.” Jack explained. “But you’ll be strong enough to protect yourself, and Clairiel. And it will keep your soul from destabilizing, which is the important part.” 

“You can do that?”

“We can do anything, Dean.” 

They both have a look in their eye. One part curiosity, one part excitement, and three parts madness. It was the kind of look actors tried to imitate when playing a mad scientist. For the first time, he’s a little frightened. Of both of them. 

“Are you sure about this?” Dean asked. “That you can do it? You’re not going to, I don’t know, zap me out of existence by mistake? Burn my eyes out?” 

“Probably not.” The Lady reassured. “Would you like to speak to anyone before we begin?” 

Dean was not feeling reassured. “No.”

“No?” she raised an eyebrow. “Not even the boy’s other father?” 

Jack coughed awkwardly. 

“No.” Dean said, firmly this time. “Let’s just get this over with.” 

Jack knelt by the pool again and lifted out a sheet of light. “Relax, Dean. It won’t hurt.” 

He’s not afraid of pain. What he’s afraid of is the change. He’s been transformed into something else enough times to know that this might take something away from him, something he won’t be able to get back. And if his anger and grief are taken away from him, he doesn’t think there will be anything left. 

_ Everything you have ever done, the good and the bad, you have done for love. _

Cas thought he was worth more. He always had faith in him, from the very beginning right down to the bitter end. But he never stuck around to prove it. 

“Jack, I -”

But the cold sheet is already touching his back, fingers worming around and digging into his ribs. He squeezes his eyes shut and hangs onto the memory, the worst moment in all the screwed up shit that made up his life. Every sacrifice and deal and god awful beating. Leading him to that room and the person who mistakenly thought he was worth it. Something that was supposed to be perfect and beautiful, and instead was an ultimate cruelty.

Jack and the Lady are guiding the energy into form, and he clings in spite of it all. It digs in and takes root, and he can  _ feel _ them take shape. Sharp as glass and hard as stone. They are not a pair of wings as much as a shield, a way to stand between the bullet and the target. 

“Open your eyes, Dean.” 

Dean looks, and suddenly he can  _ see _ . The Creators stand over him, their human forms shadowed by their enormous truths. Individual galaxies crammed into this endless room, shining so bright he’s sure he’s going to burn just from glancing. 

He opens his mouth, and begins to scream. 

“Dean, you have to relax.” The Lady orders. “Let it protect you.” 

They are divine will and truth and impossible and forever and love and hatred and -

“Dean, it’s alright.” Jack’s voice is at once soft and louder than his screams. “You just have to adjust.”

There is a rush, and another being is with them. Dean is being dragged away from the Creators, and when he looks up  _ he _ is there.

He is not a sight as much as a feeling. A thousand contradicting memories forced into a form. The cold press of clear eyes, the tranquility of a country pond, the rage of a summer storm. The yellow light of a solitary street lamp, the flash of a silver blade. A song that Dean will always know, even though he will never hear it. He speaks, and the words are foreign but Dean understands perfectly. A voice like gravel, a comfort in spite of the cracks and sharp edges they are both made of. 

“What have you done?” he thunders. 

Dean chokes on a name, and his world goes black. 

~*~

When Dean wakes again, he’s back in his bed. 

His vision is clear again, and there’s a cool weight on his back but when he reaches he can’t feel anything. Someone had taken off his shoes and jacket, leaving the jacket neatly folded on the dresser and the shoes by the door. 

There’s a hum of voices in the other room, and without meaning to he hears “-taking advantage of him - “

Dean rolls off the bed and reaches for the door.  _ He’s here _ . He’s here and Dean’s not letting him go until he answers for what he did, until Dean can find the words to explain himself. That may take a thousand years, but time works weird in this place. 

But he’s in the hallway when the front door is opening, and he’s not moving fast enough when an exasperated voice is calling, “Castiel!”, and he’s in the living room when the door slams shut, and he opens it just in time for him to be gone. 

There’s a bitter sigh behind him, and he wheels around to find Clairiel wiping her glasses on a corner of her cardigan. It’s a very human motion, and Dean wonders if it's a habit from her time on Earth. Through her human form, he can see a pale light that reminds him of a winter sunrise. 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” she sighed. “I tried to keep him here.” 

“Yeah, well, don’t want him here anyway.” Dean snarled. 

Clairiel shook her head. Before she could pass any more attempts at analyzing him, he headed for the kitchen and ripped open the fridge. He’s not even sure what he’s looking for, he just needs something. 

“He was worried about you.” 

Dean kept his eyes on the fridge. Why were there so many damned beets? 

“He was pretty mad at Jack, too.”

“It’s not his damn business what I do.” Dean slammed the door shut. “He’s made that very fucking clear.”

Clairiel winced. 

“And it’s not his business, because Jack asked for my help, and if I want to help him I fucking will, even if that feathery asshole thinks I’m being taken andvantage of and WHY DOESN’T ANYTHING IN THIS HOUSE MAKE ANY FUCKING SENSE?” 

Dean had opened the cabinet next to the fridge, where he always expected to find a stash of chips and easy junk food, and instead was faced with spices and baking chocolate. It happened at least once a week. Clairiel was looking small and frightened, and the light overhead buzzed and popped.

He cradled his face in his hands, trying to take a deep breath. “Sorry, Clairiel. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. Why don’t we just...how about you sit for a minute.” 

Dean shuffled into the livingroom with the angel skirting around him, staying in his line of sight as to not startle him. Ten minutes on the job and he’s already terrified the angel he’s supposed to be protecting. Great job, Dean. 

“Would you like some tea?” Clairiel asked timidly. “I used to make my clients tea during sessions. I became pretty good at it.” 

Dean sighed and dropped into his usual spot on the couch. “No, Clairiel, I’m don’t...I’m not a tea person.”

“...Would you mind if I made some for myself?”

“I don’t think I have any, but sure, I guess.” 

She dug her hand into a pocket of her flowing skirt and came up with a bright yellow packet. Dean kept half an eye on her as she found a kettle in the back of a cabinet and set water to boil, trying to calm his breathing. So much for not turning into a vengeful spirit. At this rate he was going to start poisoning this little corner of the afterlife. 

“Not that mug,” he said sharply when she pulled a green mug out of the cabinet. “That’s...that’s a special mug. You can use any other.” 

She carefully put it back and selected a red one. There was nothing special about the green mug, except that Sam had found it at a flea market and it was the only one Cas ever used. Telling Clairiel not to use it was more of a reflex than anything, but maybe he should have let her. Maybe if someone used the angel’s special mug, he’d come back just to be angry about it. 

When her tea was ready, Clairiel came back in and perched on the other end of the couch. She breathed in the steam coming off her tea. 

“Why do you think your house doesn’t make sense?” 

Dean sighed. “Are you asking as a professional?” 

“I’m asking as a witness to a near-episode of angelic wrath.” she replied dryly. “It seems like a nice house.” 

“It’s…” Dean rubbed his face. “There’s things here that aren’t mine. Photos that I’ve never seen. Books I’ve never even wanted to read. Gardening equipment in the garage when I’ve never picked up a spade. It’s like it’s taunting me. Some life I never had.” 

Clairiel looked sadly into her tea. “That might be exactly what it is, Dean.” 

“What?” 

“The houses are kind of on autopilot. A new soul comes here, and the afterlife builds the perfect house for them. Sometimes it’s a house from a memory when they were happiest. The place they truly called home.” 

“Well this isn’t that.” Dean snorted. “Spent most of my life living out of motels. And my car. Sometimes Bobby’s place, but he’s got that next door. Then we had the bunker, but that was half library half...well. It was close - “

“But it wasn’t this.” She gestured at the bookcase, the picture window, the plant that was browning because he never remembered to water it. “Sometimes the autopilot will make the home you wanted. To give you another chance to live that life.” 

“I gave up on the apple pie life a long time ago.” 

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t still want it. This is...I think this is the home you wanted with him, Dean. The quiet life you wanted to share with Castiel.”

And as much as he hates it, he knows she’s right. He had known it, and he refused to admit it. But Cas isn’t here. Cas is flat out avoiding him at this point, and now he’s seen this place and he hightailed it out of here. And damn it, isn’t it just so fitting that the stage for Dean's little corner of heaven was also his personal hell. 

“It doesn’t have to be like this.” Clairiel tried gently. “You could talk to him.” 

Dean snorted. “I’d have to get him to stay in the same room as me, first.” 

To her credit, Clairiel didn’t argue the point. “You should get some rest. Finish adjusting to your wings. Jack and the Lady expect us in the Garden tomorrow morning.”

Dean doesn’t know if he can stay here. Not now that Clairiel had dragged the truth kicking and screaming into the light. 

The angel dumped the tea she didn’t drink out and paused near the door for a moment, hesitating. 

“Take it from someone who’s been there, Dean. It doesn’t have to be a conversation. But at least clear the air. Do you really want to hate him for the rest of eternity?” 

She walked out the door before flying away, leaving Dean in his house of missed chances. 

Dean threw some shit in a bag and headed next door to Bobby’s. Someone, clearly someone who knew him well, had returned Baby to the garage for him instead of leaving her outside the Garden. 

It doesn’t occur to him until much later, after Bobby had given him a good dressing down about what he’d agreed to, to wonder what kind of situation Clairiel could have found herself in that was anywhere close to Dean’s. 


End file.
